THE WRITE ONE
After the clandestine meeting with Graham, Pax lingered at her apartment just long enough to change into a comfortable pair of jeans and an oversized tee shirt. During the day, the paper could tell her what to wear. At night, it could take a flying leap off a tall building. The Chicago Call was staffed skeletally at night, but everyone normally kept to his/her own area. It was fine with Pax. She needed isolation to write. Outside stimuli drove her nuts and broke her concentration. She went into her office and closed the door behind her. She griped under her breath when she realized that she had left her computer on earlier. So, of course, the ancient dinosaur would run slowly if she didn't restart the damn thing. She was completely too impatient for that. She wanted to finish this shit, turn it over, and get the hell out. She wanted to crawl in her bed and never wake up. There was so much she wanted [including a certain someone] but couldn't have just yet. Just yet? What the hell are you thinking? Not just yet, honey, never again is more like it. She growled a little. Men. She hated them. She sat with her chin propped on her hand and stared at the blank screen for several minutes. She knew what she was supposed to do, but she couldn't begin. The cursor blinked on and on, mocking and teasing her. The ideas have dried up, Agent Paxton. They've dried up and blown away. Your cover is blown. You might as well quit and get on with it. Quitting! What a novel idea. She could quit, couldn't she? If she quit, she could do what she wanted. What she wanted was out of her league again. She was playing games, different ones, of course, but games were games.
Her life was complicated. Miami had complicated it. The façade of marriage had messed up everything. She was more than happy with the occasional fight, fight, fuck, fuck stuff, but the other was a little different. Then again, she had basically surrendered herself to him, opening up and sharing her horrid past, as much as he had done with her. All along, she figured it had been leading up to this, hadn't it? Hadn't she known from the day she didn't complete the hit that something would happen? She hadn't been conscious of it until he began visiting her in the hospital, but knew it was happening, would happen if she didn't put a stop to it. Of course, she didn't really try very hard. Sighing heavily, she finally had an urge to write and when she got started, she was hard pressed to stop.
* * *
Donovan was grateful that his daughter was with her mother, because he thought he just might have a hissy fit before the night was through. For more than fifteen minutes, he paced around his living room, cursing incoherently when he rammed his shin into the edge of the coffee table. Tomorrow, that thing goes out the door. He wanted to kick himself for not grabbing her arm and dragging her ass out of there. There was a deal, he knew it, but she didn't want to let him in. He thought that after Miami, she had let him in, but it took little more than a month to destroy that bond. Jesus. Why couldn't he just let it go? She was with that Graham guy, they had looked quite comfortable, and it was obvious she didn't want him anymore. Damn it, he had seen it in her eyes earlier, when he confronted her in her office. He had seen it as sure he saw his own reflection in the mirror when he brushed his teeth. So she was with Graham. Let her stay with him and he could move on. He could go on with his life as she was hers. Damn her, I can't. I can't do it. I won't do it until I know the truth. The truth? What was the truth? She had accepted a marriage proposal [sort of], but then ran away and stayed away for a month. She had been in the same damn city, but never bothered to come to him. How the hell was that normal? Didn't that send a clear enough message? He had thought all of these things previously, but it kept coming in, wave after wave. He growled and stalked toward the kitchen. He wasn't certain if he had any whiskey in the place, but he was damn well going to look.
He grumbled as he opened each kitchen cabinet, even the ones on the bottom, and found nothing. He came close to going out, but hesitated. As annoyed as he was, he thought he might have a car wreck. That wouldn't be good. Hell, he wouldn't give Pax the satisfaction. He went to the couch, a sound leaving him [ahhhahhahhh], and leaned back into the cushions. He propped his feet onto the coffee table one last time before he threw it out. Donovan didn't last long on the couch; he was much too restless for that. He knew where to find her now, and he was close to going after her, but he hesitated. Wasn't it exactly what she was expecting? Of course it was. She was, after all, Jonella fucking Paxton. Fuck her. You know, Frankie, you certainly have an air of arrogance around you. Pax had told him that more than once, and perhaps, she was right. Fuck her? He couldn't do that. He loved her. This Graham character couldn't mean as much to her as he did, could he? The ring, that cheap silver band still encircled her finger. Wasn't that proof enough? If she hadn't still loved him, she would have discarded it weeks ago. There was no other reason for her to keep it. Jesus. She had wound him around her little finger and he was completely helpless to her. Damn you, Jonella Paxton.
Donovan ended his pity party long enough to take a shower. When he came out, he went out into the hall and checked for the evening edition of the paper. He had one copy delivered to the nest and another here. He had nearly forgotten about Pax and the fact that she now worked for this particular place. He took the paper and went back to the couch. He cracked it open and began flipping through it, thumbing directly to his favorite sections. When he saw the byline: J.E. Paxton, he groaned and closed it. He couldn't even enjoy his paper anymore. She had touched another facet of his life. He tossed the paper onto the table and leaned back again. Sleep. He needed sleep. Once he had a full night, he thought he might feel better.
He had gotten only three steps closer to his bed before the phone rang. He rolled his eyes, expecting it to be work related. He wasn't ready to go out tonight. Donovan glanced at the caller id and shook his head a little. His parents. When he picked up Stasia, they were full of questions regarding Pax. What happened with you two? Where is she? What does your daughter make of her? How serious is your relationship? The barrage went on for twenty minutes or more. There actually wasn't much to tell. He'd told them a little white lie: we're on hold. Well, at the time, it wasn't a lie. They were on hold, because he hadn't seen her, hadn't heard word that she never wanted to see him again, or any indicator such as that. He loved his parents and appreciated their concern, but he wasn't in the mood to speak to them, either. There would be more questions about Pax. If he were asked tonight, he might say something he would forever regret. He decided to let the machine pick it up while he readied for bed. "Sorry we missed you, Frank," his mother's voice said through the tiny speaker, "Call when you can." He shook his head again and smiled a little. His parents were true fussers, but then he realized that he was turning into quite the fusser as well. He slipped beneath the covers and put his arm under his head. He wasn't tired, but there was very little he could do that wouldn't bring his thoughts back to her. It was then that he suddenly realized that his bed was big and very, very empty. Again, his mind drifted back to Miami, back to the tiny twin bed. For several days, they had been packed together in that thing, packed closer than they had ever been. When she left, it was something he missed profusely. Was it wrong that he loved her, that he wanted to marry her? Shut it down, and go to sleep. Shut it off. Shut her off.
* * *
Five days passed. Five blessed days. Donovan had taken the hint and stayed away. Pax would never admit that the thought killed her, but at least she wouldn't have to confront him time and time again. She could get on with what she needed to do here and then get the hell out of Dodge [Lord, here I go again]. She dug out a legal pad and noticed several pages of chicken-scratch handwriting. It was hers, of course. During a particularly boring meeting, she made a few notes here and there about some dumb ass commentary the boss wanted her to write. The boss was a man she had extreme issues with, but thoughts of him would center in her mind later. Right now, she had to do what she was hired to do, or she would lose her job, and might lose her life. She thumbed through the pages, realized that most of her ideas were shit, and then she turned over to a blank page. There had to be something else for her to do. It was only a matter of time when the bad guys would start to notice things [if they hadn't already]. While staring vacantly at her office door, she began to scribble on her legal pad. She wasn't even aware what she was doodling, but she lost herself in thought and kept gazing, gazing, gazing. It was doing nothing for her stubborn block. Damn it. She needed to find Dicky and have him take her off this nutty job. She couldn't do it, couldn't hold out any longer than a few more days. If it took longer than that, she'd wind up running down the streets of Chicago screaming at the top of her lungs.
She and Graham had had daily briefings and determined that no one was the wiser to them yet, regardless of Pax's scant contact with Frank Donovan. She had wanted to gloat about that, but she didn't have it in her. This assignment was killing her old self, killing it as effectively as a dangerous weapon would take her life. Vaguely, she listened as the pen scritched and scratched along the pad as her eyes never wavered from the door. If she were Supergirl, it would have a hole bored in it by now. Unconsciously, she slipped the nail of her middle finger between her lips and began to gnaw at it. When she realized what she was doing, she immediately stopped. In disgust, she glanced down at her fingernail and saw that she had bitten away the polish. Damn it. She hated wearing nail polish because she bit on her nails when she had something weighing on her mind. Now there was a chip in the bright red shit that had been applied so very perfectly. Ugh. At lunch, she'd have to polish the fricking thing again. She glanced down at the legal pad, thinking that she might have scribbled an errant thought tied in to the commentary she was expected to write. Instead, there was nothing other than a few words scattered here and there, composed of various combinations of a name. Donovan. Frank. Frank Donovan. Frankie. In disgust, she sighed and ripped the paper off the pad and tore it into shreds. She nearly threw them in the trash until she spied the paper shredder just on the other side of her desk. She took the pieces and slipped them in one at a time, listening to the satisfying buzz. When her task was complete, she turned to her legal pad again and busied herself with an outline. Finally, an idea or three had come to her. If she didn't write it down now, she'd lose it forever.
After half an hour, the peaceful silence in Pax's office was shattered by the loud, annoying beep of her phone. A few seconds after that, the equally annoying voice of the receptionist called her name. She had been more than tempted to ignore it. Considering what happened later, she would soon wish she had. Sighing, she said, "What is it?"
"There's a man here who says he has an appointment with you. Would you like me to send him down?"
A man with an appointment? What the hell? She should have known who it was the moment the words sank into her thick skull. It should have been more than obvious. She didn't make appointments with people, even those she spoke with in an article or whatever. She went to them, whether they wanted to talk to her or not. Of course, there was always a chance that she had. It was the only reason she accepted the 'guest' thing. "Yeah, Janet, send him down."
Pax had no desire to speak to or see anyone, but if she had made an appointment, whoever it was could talk all he wanted. She would continue scribbling on her legal pad and let the guy talk until he was blue in the face. She didn't bother looking up when she heard Janet outside chatting to the man excitedly, giggling like an idiot. She kept her eyes focused on her pad as Janet opened the door for him. She turned to the shredder again and let it eat another page she wanted to get rid of while the man entered and closed the door behind him. She fed a second handful of papers into the machine as he casually took a seat. He waited patiently for her to turn around. She didn't care to keep him waiting. After all, he was coming in on her time. She was a busy writer, now wasn't she? She nearly laughed at that thought. When she turned toward her guest, she didn't know whether to snarl or cry. Damn you, Frankie. What the fuck are you doing here? It was the first set of words that she wanted to shout toward him. Of course, she couldn't go that route. She was a 'changed' woman. She glanced around her desk for a few brief moments. There were tons of things to throw at him, such as a stapler, tape dispenser, scads of pens, pencils, and of course, her legal pad. Hmm. Which would do the most damage? Oh, wait a minute. If clamped down hard enough on his flesh, her squirrel teeth staple puller might give him a bad infection. She tried to take the casual way out again as she leaned back in her executive chair. Actually, she just wanted to check him out.
He sat across from her, nonchalant as hell with his legs crossed and his hands folded in front of him. Sexy as hell, he was decked out in dark brown slacks, a matching button down shirt, and a camel colored sports jacket. His dark eyes were fixed on her and hadn't strayed for a moment. Of course, she didn't mind. Why did he have to come to her looking so hot? Why couldn't he come in disheveled and stinky with ill-fitting clothes and bad shoes? Of course, she wasn't sure if that would necessarily keep her from thinking him hot. He'd actually been fairly ratty a couple of times in the jungle and still managed to be sexy. Ugh. Bastard. He drove her to wits end without doing a damn thing. By looking at the smug bastard, she could see he knew this. He knew it and used it every time he came near her.
Donovan did his own once over. She had obviously been in a hurry to get to work this morning, because her wild and thick hair was up in a messy French twist. Yet, she pulled off the look without trying. There were lots of things she could pull off, even well fitting business suits. Apparently, she was scheduled to do something important today because she wore an expensive tweed suit that was a nice shade of dark blue, one almost matching her eyes. He couldn't help but wonder if she still had any of her old stuff lingering around. He was slightly amused, because both of them seemed to be trying to stare the other down. It was a challenge they were up to, of course. However, he didn't come here today to stare at her.
"What are you doing here," she demanded. "Didn't you get enough at the hotel?" God, her damn voice was quaking the slightest bit. She hated it, hated it so badly, she wanted to scream.
"Enough of what, Jonella," he asked darkly. "I didn't even touch you, so how could I have enough? If you'll look at your wall clock, it's twelve-fifteen. I'm here to take you to lunch."
"Is that right," she asked as she leaned her elbows onto her desk. She propped her chin into her hands as if she were staring at a particularly interesting work of art. "You're so very pushy, aren't you? Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you say something, oh, five days ago about not 'wanting fucking lunch?' Of course, I want you to understand those are your words, not mine."
He nodded absently. "You're right, but you were the one who offered, if I remember." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Now what was it that you said? You'd see me around on the streets, perhaps have lunch with me…is that about right?" She said nothing, only focused her dark blue eyes on his face. "So, I came to take you to lunch, at your request. For the record, I'm inviting you only. Will that be okay with the boyfriend?"
If you only knew how I felt about my boyfriend. "I need no one's permission to do any damn thing, including that of an asshole federal agent." She bit her bottom lip, wanting badly to sink her teeth in. A bit of the old Pax had come slipping out, and she could see the flashing in the bastard's eyes. It was odd. It seemed as if their roles had reversed. It was he who was the button pusher. He knew something was out of whack. Donovan wasn't stupid. "I'll go with you, but I choose the place."
He stood. "Fair enough."
* * *
Donovan nearly laughed as they entered the dark, stuffy bar. This was definitely a place where the old Pax would feel right at home. As she moved through the darkened environment, the patrons goggled at this well-dressed businesswoman. She ignored the inquisitive looks and chose a table. He sat down directly in front of her. Every little word she said, he wanted to hear it, and see the look in her eyes. Pax yelled out to the bartender for menus and two beers.
She glanced at Donovan. "This place looks like a dump, but they have the best sandwiches in town." When they were given their menus and beers, Pax ordered for them both and sent the barkeep away. "Just what in the hell do you think you're doing? Jesus, Frank, do you listen?"
He picked up the frosted mug, took a thoughtful sip, and set it down. He had never developed much of a taste for beer, but anything cold would do at this moment. "What do you think I'm doing? I'm trying to find out what the hell is going on with you. You have a new life and that's wonderful, but I'm curious as to why it doesn't involve me."
She rolled her eyes and picked up her own mug. Unlike Donovan, she was as much of a beer hound as she was a vodka snarfer. She took a long swallow. "Do we have to keep going on and on and on about this? Wasn't what you heard and saw five days ago enough for you?"
"No," he said, "it wasn't. How long have you been with this guy? Two weeks? Three? How long? Has it been long enough for you to completely shove me out? Has it?"
Pax set her mug down with a hollow bang. If she hadn't drained half of it, it would have slopped out on the table. "Can you never ask one question at a time? David Graham is none of your concern." He means nothing to me. Nothing. Can't you see? Of course you can't, you're too tied up in your own hurt. "For God's sake, let it go," she said. Just don't do it too fast, huh? "Can we not talk about this anymore? Is this the only reason you wanted to see me today? If it is, you can leave right now."
"No, it's not the only reason. However, I don't think your pathetic explanation five days ago will ever be enough for me. I want to talk to you, one on one, in a place that isn't so…public."
Dear fucking God. If he gets me to his place or if I take him to mine, it's over, it's all over. I'll be on him quicker than he can blink his eyes. "I don't think that's a good idea," was all she could manage to say.
Donovan took another sip of his beer and then leaned back in the chair a little. A bitter smile touched his lips. "You're afraid to be alone with me, aren't you? I get it. I get it now. This is the same shit you pulled before. I can see it and you didn't master it before. You definitely can't now. Fear. It's all over you."
She glared at him. "Fu-You don't know what the hell you're talking about, Donovan." Fuck you Spankie…fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you some more. "I'm not afraid of anything."
Donovan started to speak, but he hesitated when their sandwiches were brought to them. He picked his up and bit into it. She was right. The sandwich was pretty damn good. He was amused; he was utterly amused. He chewed, swallowed, and used his napkin. "Yes you are," he said. "Before, you were afraid to admit that you loved me and now, you're afraid to admit that you still love me. It's okay, say what you want, but I know the truth."
Fifteen minutes ago, she had been hungry enough to eat a horse, but now, her stomach had shriveled to the size of a prune. "You're an asshole," she said.
"I am," he agreed, "and you love me."
Although she had no intention of staying with him another minute, she watched him finish his lunch and she allowed him to walk her back to work. She was making ready to slam her door on him, but his arm shot out and grabbed hers. She wanted to jerk it out of his grasp, but couldn't. He followed her into her office, pulled her up roughly against him, and mashed his mouth down on hers. Oh Jesus, she thought, oh heaven. I've missed him; I've missed him so much.
He broke the kiss after a few moments and gazed down into her eyes. "Can he kiss you like this?" He left her before she could answer.
Nope, not even close.
____________________
To be continued…